


Inked

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Your skin is not just your own; it is a canvas, shared with the other part of your soul - every word impressed upon it is a secret, shared between two.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miracleboysatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miracleboysatori/gifts).



> This is my contribution to Kat's support book! I hope you like it, dear friend <3

Wakatoshi was a meticulous person, but sometimes he forgot things.

It was because he forgot things that he carried a pen around with him at all times, to write a note to himself on the palm of his hand, and when that kept getting smudged off, on the back of his hand.

It was an easy and efficient method of remembering, until one day, he found a reminder to do his homework – except he already had.

When he rubbed at the mark, it didn’t come away easily, nor did it smudge like his pen ink was wont to do.

It was only when his mother found him washing his hands obsessively – the words were _still_ there – that he was stopped.

That day, he learnt what a soulmate mark was.

He also stopped writing on his skin.

\-----

He wondered why the words stopped appearing after a while. He knew they weren’t addressed to him, but it was nice to know that his soulmate was sort of forgetful – it was a cute thought to have, about someone he might never meet.

_I wonder what they’re like._

\-----

Wakatoshi was still in elementary school when little drawings started appearing on his arms – a small flower, a smiling snail, a tortoise on its back. He rubbed at them absentmindedly, but when his skin was red and raw and the drawings remained, he remembered his soulmate and the connection they shared.

So he stopped rubbing at them, and smiled whenever a new one appeared.

\-----

He was always bored, and no one wanted to talk to him, so he drew.

One day, he found awkward, angled words printed under one of his doodles, a little arrow pointing to his messiest drawing yet.

**_I like this one._ **

He stared in disbelief – that was the most horrible thing he had drawn thus far, and he was just about to rub it out. But it seemed that his soulmate liked it, so he wrote back a quick **_Thank you!_** and continued doodling.

\-----

Wakatoshi grew up with doodles on his skin. They started small, as his soulmate learnt to draw, but gradually expanded, becoming larger, more intricate. Patterns of vines and abstract swirls climbed up his arm, wrapping itself around his biceps, dotting the skin inside his elbows. Little rockets took off his knees, mapped stars and galaxies on his legs.

Whenever he practiced volleyball with his father, he’d get a bit distracted by all the drawings on his body – but he was glad that no amount of his own dirt and sweat could wash them off, because it was not his ink. Sometimes, he wished others would ask about his drawings – not because they were his, but because they were beautiful, and he wanted to share that beauty with others.

As he grew up and transitioned from elementary to middle school, the drawings seemed to restrict themselves to his arms. He assumed, then, that his soulmate was the same age as him, for that was the age that boys wore long uniform pants even in the heat of summer, and it was immodest for girls to hitch their skirts up to draw on their legs.

Sometimes he thought it odd that he never asked his soulmate more about themselves, but then again, he was perfectly content with the manner by which they communicated.

In his second year of middle school, he started writing reminders to himself again.

\-----

His drawings were awful, and if any of the other boys saw the patterns on his skin, they’d poke fun at him.

He washed them away before practice began, but on the walk home, he’d draw something new.

He couldn’t help it – drawing was one of the things that kept him calm and sane, and he was eternally grateful that his soulmate thought every one of his doodles beautiful.

When he flipped his hand over, he noticed a little smudge on his right palm – a reminder:

**_Protein must be taken 30min after exercise._ **

He blinked. _Must be a sports person._

And then, _I wonder if they play volleyball!_

He picked his pen up again and doodled a volleyball on the back of his hand, humming happily the rest of the way home.

As he washed his hands for dinner, he saw a reply on his right hand: a children’s volleyball mascot, with arms and legs thrown high in jubilation.

He smiled, and picked up a pen.

\-----

His soulmate played volleyball, he was certain of it.

After their first volleyball-related drawings, their doodles spiralled into full matches drawn on the back of hands, extending up their forearms before hopping to the other arm.

It was always more difficult to draw with his right hand, but his scribbles were passable, he thought. His soulmate never made fun of his shaky drawings, though there was a quick question on his left palm once.

He replied in turn on his right palm, and the **_NICE_** he got made a small smile tug at his lips.

He was able to hide the drawings under this school uniform most of the time – the teachers would surely not appreciate it – but during practice, they stood out against his skin, and invited stares. The coach didn’t like it either, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

So every time he spiked, blocked or received, the drawings would catch his eye.

Sometimes, the mere thought of them gave him wings.

\-----

When he was antsy, he doodled more.

But it was the day of the competition, and for the sake of propriety, he wasn’t allowed to draw.

But he could write.

**_You’ll be fine You’ll be fine You’ll be fine_ **

His entire left palm was black with ink, words blurring into each other, smudging with friction and sweat.

He opened and closed his hand, clenching it tightly, exhaling heavily.

He could do this. He’d be fine. Playing a match with teammates who didn’t quite like him? He’d be fine. The coach needed him in for his height, it didn’t matter what others thought.

He’d be fine.

He put the pen down, stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching them.

And suddenly, there were words on his right palm.

**_Are you alright?_ **

He could barely hold his pen, his hand was so damp, but he managed to scrawl **_Nervous_** on the back of his hand.

He saw the words appear on his right palm, neat strokes tattooing into his skin.

**_What about?_ **

**_Volleyball match._ **

He waited and waited, but no more words appeared, and the coach was calling them – he had to go. He wiped his palms on his pants – they were wearing their dark uniforms, it was fine – and set the pen down, not looking back.

They got to the court and he stepped up to the net, put his hands up – they were serving first.

And right as the whistle blew, he noticed them. A tiny string of words, dividing his hand in half.

**_Good luck. I believe in you._ **

He almost missed blocking the spike because he was so warm inside.

\-----

Wakatoshi tugged on his sleeves, pulling them down to cover his wrists.

It was his first day at high school, and he wanted to make a favourable impression. It didn’t matter that he had been going to Shiratorizawa since middle school – high school was different. It was new ground, with fresh faces and novel experiences, and he was going to take it seriously.

He stood in line at assembly with the rest of the school, checking surreptitiously under his sleeves, smiling faintly when he saw a new line.

**_Good luck at your new school!!_ **

He looked up; the assembly had not yet begun. He pulled a pen from his pocket, and wrote his own encouragement as a reply.

\-----

**_I wish you the best of luck at yours._ **

He smiled at his wrist. Always so formal, his soulmate, so polite and stiff even in speech.

He’d like to meet them someday, but with his luck with people, what were the chances?

(Likely never.)

\-----

**_Club tryouts ♪ Club tryouts ♪_ **

Wakatoshi smiled at the words lining his hand, picking up his pen to scrawl a reply before standing and leaving the classroom.

He couldn’t be late for his own club, though he was already guaranteed a place.

Sports scholarships were a wonderful thing indeed.

\-----

He changed quickly, smiling at the words on his hand before writing his own reply.

**_Nah, just saying. I got in on sports scholarship, I already have my club._ **

He continued doodling on his hand, drawing a pattern that extended up his arm. The cool tip of the pen was a familiar pressure against his skin, and some of his wound-up tension unravelled.

The school bell rang, and he jerked – he had to get to the gym.

Casting a last glance over his drawing – it was too late to wash it off – he nodded and started running.

It wasn’t a bad drawing, by any count.

\-----

“First year, Ushijima Wakatoshi. I play wing spiker.”

He took a step back after his introduction, arms folded loosely behind his back. It wasn’t as if he had anything to hide, but there was an intricate design that covered his entire left forearm, and he wasn’t sure that the coach would take graffitied players seriously. (His one meeting with the man had solidified that fact, deeply rooted it in his brain.)

He desperately wanted to be on the team, and if momentarily hiding his soulmate’s art would help with his second impression, then he would take it.

(He felt guilty upon admission of that thought, and apologised to his soulmate in his mind.)

He didn’t really hear the rest of the first years introduce themselves – there would be time to get to know them later – and simply followed the directions the coach gave.

It wasn’t until he was paired up with another – a stern-faced boy with a ready smile – that he let his arms swing by his side, coming up front quickly to receive and pass the ball back to him.

He could see the other eyeing his arm with interest, so he caught the ball and held the appendage out to him. “You may look. I do not mind.”

The boy looked surprised, but shook his head, reaching out to grasp his hand firmly. “That is private, between you and your soulmate. I do not want to pry. Oh, I’m Oohira Reon. Nice to meet you.”

“Ushijima Wakatoshi. Nice to meet you.” He stepped back into position, and tossed the ball for their drill.

They continued in silence, punctuated only by the sounds of others in the gym, screaming to each other, calling for the ball. It was only when they stopped to move on to their next drill that Oohira addressed him again.

“I’m not sure if you know, but that guy has the same drawings as you on his arm.”

Wakatoshi spun round so fast, he almost gave himself whiplash. “Who?”

“The tall one with the red hair.”

And Wakatoshi saw.

He made a move towards him, but a firm hand on his wrist held him back, followed by strong words of logic. “If you stop doing drills now, Washijou-sensei will have our heads.”

“But I must–”

“You may not make a good impression with Washijou-sensei, and thus not make the team.”

He stopped. He thought about it, then turned to Oohira and nodded slowly.

“You are right. I will talk to him after practice.”

\-----

Practice was tough but fun, and he even made a new friend through it.

His friend let him talk but also made the most scathing comments – he had never been so delighted in his life.

To seal their friendship, he decided a prank was in order, and so grabbed a marker after practice and drew a little something on the back of his friend’s neck.

It took his friend five minutes to find a mirror to see what he had drawn, and by then, there were large, angry kanji running all over his arm, demanding to know why there was this _obscene_ drawing on them.

He had run out of the locker room before he found out what he drew, laughing to himself; ducking around a well-built person, he made to leave, but a large hand on his shoulder stopped him.

He looked up: the other was stoic, impassive, and didn’t look like he had any business with him at all. He opened his mouth to say just that, but the boy extended his left arm to him, palm up, and suddenly, his mouth was dry.

He knew that drawing.

He looked up again, straightening, and attempted a cracked smile. “Hello.”

“Hello.” There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face, and he was floored – his heart felt like it had jumped out of his chest and taken dance classes before returning, it was beating so fast. “My name is Ushijima Wakatoshi, it is nice to meet you.”

He gaped, then coughed out a laugh.

(His words were formal and well-arranged, and he knew that phrasing, even if he had never had a voice to go with the words before.)

(It was, it really was him.)

(Him.)

(His soulmate.)

(What were the chances?)

The brightest grin split his face, and he grabbed his extended hand eagerly, shaking it, squeezing it, as if to prove to himself that he was real.

“Hello,” he began, just as a shout split the air. “I’m Tendou Satori. And it’s very nice to finally meet you in person, but let’s run first and talk later.”

Ushijima’s brow furrowed, the tiniest crease of confusion. “I do not understand.”

“No need to,” he replied, tugging at the hand still in his until he began moving. “It’s just that I played a prank on one of our teammates, and he’s probably coming after me right now–”

“TENDOU! WHERE ARE YOU?”

“–that’s him,” Tendou confirmed, a giddy smile on his face. “Shall we go?”

“But I do not understand why we must evade him.”

“I’ll explain later. C’mon, this way!”

And they were off, two lanky figures darting through the last rays of the setting sun, footsteps pounding strangely along the concrete.

His bag bounced against his back, a discomfort he was unused to, but his fingers were intertwined with someone’s – his soulmate, his friend, the one constant he always had, besides volleyball.

It was uncomfortable to be running as such, but as he watched the honeyed rays catch in a shock of red hair, play across the design still impressed upon his skin, he felt himself smile a little.

It wasn’t what he expected, but he had a feeling he would enjoy the ride.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's curious about Tendou's drawing on the back of Semi's neck - yes, it was a dick. 
> 
> (Anyone who knows me also knows who Semi's soulmate is heheheh.)


End file.
